


I Don't Want to Wait

by Kat_of_a_Different_Color



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence - Tyrion & Sansa's wedding, F/M, Period-Typical Underage, Shae dies in Chapter 1, Tywin actually kind of cares about Tyrion, Tywin helps Sansa thwart Joffrey being a jerk at the wedding, What-If, just a heads up, just go with it, no Talisa, no red wedding, probably lots of characters are OOC, this is what I want to have happened
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2020-06-24 09:16:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19720708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kat_of_a_Different_Color/pseuds/Kat_of_a_Different_Color
Summary: Basically this is what if Tywin actually cared about what happened to Tyrion and Robb was doing better in the war.





	1. Chapter 1

In the moment that Joffrey casts her aside for Margaery, all Sansa feels is relief. She will not have to marry her tormentor. She will not have to marry the monster who murdered her father, who made her go up to the walls of the Red Keep with him and stare at her father’s severed head until her eyes burned with the tears she held back. Joffrey will wed someone else - someone whose honeyed tongue may actually keep her safe. Sansa hopes that Margaery is able to keep herself safe from Joffrey. No one deserves his cruelty.

Margaery is a sweet girl - a few years older than Sansa is, and widowed - though, as her husband perished before their wedding was consummated, she is still a maiden. She coaxes Sansa out of her shell a bit, she and her grandmother, the Lady Olenna. Lady Olenna’s tongue is so sharp as to frighten Sansa, but she uses it on the, as she calls them, imbeciles surrounding her, rather than Sansa herself. It is a relief to be around someone, at least, who doesn’t speak cruelly to her, doesn’t assume she is a brainless twit, as Cersei does. The three of them - Sansa, Margaery, and Lady Olenna - plot to marry Sansa to Margaery’s older brother Willas, who is in Highgarden and did not travel to King’s Landing with the rest of his family. He is the heir to House Tyrell, and what Margaery tells her of Willas makes her eager to wed him and be free of Cersei and Joffrey.

Mostly she wants to be free of Cersei and Joffrey, but Willas does sound lovely. She learns to giggle with Margaery at the sharp words Lady Olenna sends at her maids and the menservants who serve her. She walks around the Red Keep, arm in arm with its future queen, showing her the places Sansa discovered when she and Septa Mordane explored, when she first came to King’s Landing and thought she would be queen. It is right for a queen to know the castle she inhabits, Sansa thinks, so it is only right for her to share her knowledge with Margaery.

Of course she won’t be allowed to leave the Red Keep, she thinks, to escape the Lannisters. Of course she won’t be allowed to marry Willas Tyrell. Instead, she is to wed Tyrion Lannister - the Imp, as Arya always called him. Tyrion, though a dwarf, has always been kind to her, belying his epithets - he has been a truer knight than the vicious king who now sits on the Iron Throne. She is not eager to marry Tyrion, of course, as it does nothing to help her escape King’s Landing, but things could be so much worse. She could still be betrothed to Joffrey. The thought makes her shudder.

Marriage to Tyrion will not be that bad, she tries to tell herself, as she looks with alarm at Shae’s furious face. Before her handmaiden can say a word, Sansa holds up her hand and says, “Shae, leave us, please.” Her handmaiden complies, though she is glaring at Tyrion, who looks nervous, the whole way out of the room, and she does not shut the door behind her quietly. Sansa frowns at the door, having flinched at the loud sound of it slamming shut. “I wonder what can be bothering her about this?” she says under her breath.

Apparently not quietly enough for Tyrion to have missed it. “Sometimes we hear things in ways we do not want to, my lady,” he says, an echo of his earlier words. Sansa shakes her head. Why would hearing of her marriage to Tyrion bother Shae? If anyone has the right to be bothered by it, it is Sansa herself - or Tyrion. “I am so sorry, my lady,” her husband-to-be tells her, sorrow etched on his face. “If I thought I could have chosen differently without endangering you…”

“I thank you for your concern over my welfare, my lord,” she replies, looking down at her hands. “Your care is appreciated.”

“I am sorry,” he repeats before turning for the door.

“My lord,” she says, making him turn back to face her, “what shall I expect as your wife?”

He sighs heavily. “I will not harm you,” he tells her. “I will do my best to protect you; you have my word as a Lannister.” When he sees her flinch, his lips press together. “I apologize, my lady,” he says quietly. “I spoke without thinking. You have my word as your husband-to-be that I will not harm you, not ever.”

Looking at him, willing the sting away from his words about his House, she says, “You cannot promise that, my lord. I would prefer that you promise to make the choice best suited to my protection, even if it is not one you prefer. Even if it is one that could harm me for the moment, yet protect me long-term.” She does not know what he would count as harming her, what he counts as protecting her, though she does trust him… to an extent. He has protected her, after all, and with no expectation on him to do so, with no expectation that she owe him anything in return for his protection.

“In that case, Lady Sansa, I promise to protect you however I can, and not to betray your trust,” Tyrion promises with a bow, and turns to leave.

When Lord Tywin calls her to his office in the Tower of the Hand - the office that was, for a short time, her father’s - she does not know what to expect. What on earth can he wish to speak to her about? Shae goes with her, and walks with Sansa into the office of the Hand.

“Lord Tywin,” Sansa says, curtsying deeply, pushing away the hurt at seeing this cruel man in the chair her father, who was so kind, occupied.

“Lady Sansa,” he replies curtly. “Come. Sit.”

She walks toward his desk, Shae at her side, but when they reach his desk and Sansa seats herself, Tywin stiffens and half-stands from his chair, face contorted with fury. “My lord-?” Sansa begins, but he cuts her off harshly.

“You,” he growls, glaring fiercely at Shae. “You!”

Sansa frowns in confusion. “Lord Tywin, has my handmaiden done something wrong?” she asks. “If she has, I am sorry - she is not from King’s Landing, and she is still learning our ways.”

Tywin waves her worries away with a hand - and blows her away with his next words. “My son brought you here?” he demands of Shae, who says nothing, chin tilted high but eyes on the ground. “He disobeyed me? Well? Answer me, girl!” he shouts, and Sansa flinches. “You do know, do you not,” Tywin demands of Shae, “that I ordered my son to leave his whore behind when I sent him to King’s Landing to act as Hand in my stead?”

Sansa’s jaw drops. She looks between Lord Tywin and Shae, gaze flickering back and forth, and she realizes that Tyrion’s words the other day, when he came to inform her of their impending nuptials, were not meant for her, but for Shae. Her handmaiden, who apparently is also his whore. Who was his whore first, in fact. She is not sure whether she is more disgusted that Tyrion brought a whore to King’s Landing against the express orders of his father, or that said whore was given to her as a handmaiden. No wonder Shae knows nothing about being a handmaiden! She is not a handmaiden at all!

“I am aware that you informed Tyrion of it,” Shae replies, staring at him annoyedly, “my lord.” She sounds almost mutinous.

“And yet you came,” Lord Tywin says, through his teeth. He eyes Shae for several long moments; she eyes him right back until he calls for his guards. “Take her to the black cells,” he tells the guards, whose faces Sansa cannot see through their helms. “Have her executed in the morning.” He pauses, eyes narrowing even more on Shae. “No,” he says, calling the guard back just as they reach the door. “Execute her when you get there. Dispose of her corpse however you please.”

Sansa presses her lips together and holds very still, taking deep breaths to stave off the tears welling in her eyes. Not that she is pleased with the revelation of Shae’s status, but Shae is one of the few people here in King’s Landing who has protected her. She doesn’t want Shae to die.

Well… No. She does not want Shae to die. The fact that she has been - Sansa’s cheeks flush - sleeping with Sansa’s betrothed matters not. It is not as if Sansa was betrothed to Tyrion when he met Shae. But what can she do? Tywin Lannister has spoken.

“My apologies for that, Lady Sansa,” Lord Tywin says tightly. “I assure you, that sort of thing will not be allowed to continue. I would like you to come to me if my son disrespects you like that again.”

Sansa blinks. “As you wish, my lord,” she replies demurely, keeping her eyes on the surface of his desk as an idea strikes her, not daring to look up and meet his eyes. “Lord Tywin…” she begins, unsure how to go on.

“Yes?” he replies, sounding impatient.

Gritting her teeth, she asks, “My lord, since you are to be my good-father… and since my own lord father is… gone… I was wondering- well, I was hoping that I might call you my lord father.” She chances a glance up at him; he is trying - and not succeeding very well - to hide that he is gobsmacked. “My lord… father?” she says hesitantly, quietly, as if she is afraid he will shout at her for daring to say it - which, in all fairness, she is.

“You truly wish this?” Lord Tywin asks, sounding utterly baffled, though he tries valiantly to conceal his bafflement.

“I do, my lord father,” Sansa replies, ducking her head again, looking at his desk again.

In her peripheral vision, she sees him nod - once. “Yes,” he says, as her eyes flash back up to meet his. “Yes, you may call me that - as long as I have the privilege of calling you my daughter.”

“Of course, my lord father.” She chances a smile at him; miraculously, he actually almost smiles back - his lips sort of twitch, like his muscles have forgotten how to move to form a smile. “Is there anything else you wished to speak to me of, my lord father?”

“Yes,” Tywin tells her. “I am aware of the way Joffrey has been treating you.”

“His Grace?” Sansa queries, eyes darting back and forth, still not rising to meet his. “King Joffrey is always gracious with me, as a king ought.” Finally she glances up at Lord Tywin, a quick flicker of her gaze, and sees that he does not look amused.

“Hmm,” he says, lips flattened. “After his wedding to Margaery Tyrell, I will send you and Tyrion to Casterly Rock.”

Sansa freezes. “My lord?”

And then Lord Tywin frowns. “No. We should get you away from Joffrey sooner.” His frown deepens for several long moments as he considers what to do with her. “Hmm… perhaps,” he muses, “you and Tyrion could go to Winterfell.”

She thought she was already sitting as straight up as she could, but the effect of his words proves her wrong on that count; her spine straightens more than she knew it could as she stares intently at Lord Tywin. “My lord father?”

“The North needs a new Warden, since… ah, since the previous one can no longer fill that role,” he elaborates, more diplomatically than she had expected him to ever be. “You and Tyrion will go north; you will rebuild what must be rebuilt to make Winterfell functional again, and Tyrion will be the new Warden of the North.” His flattened lips show what he thinks of this plan; he had never intended for Tyrion to be the Warden of anything, not even the West, which he is technically the heir to. “Your family’s claim on Winterfell will bring it back into the fold, and this will ensure that whichever way this war ends, you and my son will be safe.”

Sansa stares at Lord Tywin in utter shock. Did he just-? He did. He just implied that it is possible that the Lannister forces may not actually win this war. He is contingency planning. Does this mean that Robb is winning? She keeps her face still, refusing to let her thoughts show. If Tywin knows that she suspects what this may mean…

“My lord father…” she says slowly, having no idea how to respond to what he’s said.

“Of course,” he continues, “the line of a Warden is not secure until he has an heir.”

Of course, she thinks - this is the catch. “Must I have a child before Lord Tyrion and I go North?” she asks. “Only… the royal wedding is in only three months, and you said that you wanted me to leave sooner than that.”

“You must not birth a child before you go North, my daughter,” Lord Tywin says; she struggles not to shudder at the words coming from his mouth. “However, you will need to have a maester confirm a pregnancy before you leave.”

“Yes, my lord father,” she replies, dipping her chin demurely. “I understand.” Winterfell’s fate - and her own - rely on her ability to entice Tyrion into her bed. And he is renowned for his dealings with whores. She is only a girl, only recently flowered - she knows nothing of what happens between a husband and wife in their bedroom. She knows that she is blushing furiously, but surely Lord Tywin is expecting her to - speaking so frankly of pregnancy to her.

After a long, silent - awkward - moment, he says, “Well, the whore must be dead by now. You may go.”

She rises and curtsies deeply - more deeply than she has for him before. “Thank you, my lord father.” The words taste like ash in her mouth, and she has to turn swiftly to hide the tears she needs to blink away.

Fortunately, Lord Tywin does not call her back, and the guards at the door are facing outwards and therefore cannot detect her too-fast blinking. She hurries - though not too quickly; she cannot seem to hurry - away from the Tower of the Hand, back to her own chambers. She has been handed a victory she never - never - would have expected: she can go home.

As soon as she falls pregnant.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion and Sansa have a discussion. Tywin steps in at the wedding.

“Did you know?” Tyrion asks, the moment he is in her rooms - no greeting, just a question barked at her as he barges in.

“Did I know what?” Sansa shoots back, voice low and dangerous. “That Shae was a whore? That you brought her here?” Shaking her head in disgust, she adds, “Did you mean for her to be in my service, or was it just convenient that your wife’s handmaiden was your whore?”

“That they were going to kill her,” Tyrion says, low and iron-sharp.

Sansa nods. “I did know that; your father was quite clear on what the guards were to do with her. I was in your father’s office at the time, though, so there was nothing I could do. He made sure I was there well past long enough for them to have killed her.” She doesn’t feel particularly remorseful, though. What are the chances Tyrion would stay faithful to her, if he had already been sleeping with her handmaiden? And it’s not like Shae had been a particularly good handmaiden in the first place. Still... “I am sorry, Tyrion. I... I suppose you must have cared for her.” She can only force so much sympathy into her tone, though, when she feels little, if any, sympathy for her betrothed.

“I did,” Tyrion says quietly, sounding only resigned and sad now.

Crossing the room towards him, she lowers herself into the chair he stands beside, amused at the nervousness on his face as she sets her hands, folded together, on the arm of the chair. “Our wedding is tomorrow, my lord.” He nods but gives no other reaction. “Would you like to know what your lord father and I discussed in his office? I assure you, he did not bring me there because of Shae - he was quite surprised to see her.” She knows her words are cruel, but she cannot hold back their bite.

“What did you discuss, my lady?” Tyrion clasps his hands behind his back.

“Winterfell.”

That catches his attention. She knew it would. “Your old home, my lady? What did you discuss about it?”

“Our plans for it,” she tells Tyrion evenly. He gapes at her.

“Your- your plans for it?” he sputters. “Your plans with my father? You are planning something with him?”

“Well, it needs to be rebuilt, of course,” she reminds him. “Since Theon burnt it.” Her voice is steady, though she feels entirely at sea. She still can barely fathom Theon’s betrayal.

“Theon Greyjoy?” Tyrion asks, taken aback. “Your father’s ward?”

Her smile turns brittle. “Well, some might argue that he was a hostage.” A long moment passes with she and Tyrion staring past each other, both lost in their thoughts.

“Is that the only thing the two of you discussed?” he asks, still looking aghast. “Have the both of you forgotten that we are at war against your brother?”

“I have not forgotten,” she snaps. “And neither has he. Either way the war goes, the North will need a new Warden. If your family wins, you can keep me safe; if mine wins, our marriage will keep you safe.”

He frowns. “What are you saying?”

“Of course,” she continues blithely, “one cannot be assured of a Warden who has no heir.”

“Sansa,” he says, voice harder, frustrated, “what are you saying?”

“I am saying that as soon as a maester can confirm that I am pregnant” - she blushes - “your father will send us to Winterfell.”

“Of course,” Tyrion growls. “As soon as I get a terrified, trembling girl with child, we can leave - but not before.”

“Joffrey’s wedding is not for three months,” she whispers fiercely. “That is plenty of time for you to-“ She makes a face.

“For me to fuck you?” Tyrion says bluntly.

“For me to fall pregnant,” she replies, voice snapping, whiplike. “For us to be able to leave.”

Brow folded with confusion, her betrothed asks, “And what will we be doing in Winterfell, once it is repaired? You mentioned the Warden of the North, but…” When she just stares at him, one brow slightly cocked, his jaw drops. “Oh,” he says. “Oh, no. No - no, my father would never name me as Warden of the North.”

Shrugging, she replies, “Well, I thought it was the King’s job to choose Wardens, but apparently it has been decided that since I am the only Stark loyal to the crown, my husband can hold the title. And you… I know you can do a good job, my lord.” She glances up at him to see that he looks deeply perplexed by her words.

“Why-?”

“Do you think I am ignorant of all you did as Hand of the King when your father was not here?” she asks. “That I have no idea how King’s Landing was defended against Stannis’ forces? You helped people, my lord.”

“Pardon me, my lady, but why do you trust me?” Tyrion asks, looking almost baffled. “As I said, my family is at war with yours.”

“Well, it is not as if I know anything about their battle plans,” she points out. “There’s nothing I could tell you that would make a difference to who wins the war. And leaving the capital removes me from Joffrey’s grasp. And I know you like him about as much as he likes you.”

“Which is to say,” Tyrion adds dryly, “not at all.”

“Indeed, my lord,” she replies, looking up at him through her lashes - it’s a technique she’s seen Margaery use with Joffrey; hopefully it will work as well on the uncle as the nephew. Hopefully it will work better. Unfortunately, he is looking across the room, out the window. Well, she can try it again some other time.

A long, awkward silence follows her words. After fidgeting with her hands for nearly a minute, waiting for Tyrion to make some reply, she presses her lips together and decides to move on to other matters.

“My lord,” she says, “I now need a new handmaiden. And- obviously I will need a handmaiden in Winterfell, once we leave King’s Landing to go there. Should I find a handmaiden now, and ask her to leave King’s Landing with us? Should I wait until we go to Winterfell to find one?”

“Why are you asking me?” Her betrothed is giving her a highly confused look; she does her best not to roll her eyes.

“Well, my lord,” she says, “who else can I ask? It is not as if I can go to your sister with these questions. And I don’t want to speak of our leaving outside of whatever rooms we are in, and only behind closed doors, because you know that if Joffrey found out, he would find a way of making sure I stayed here.”

Tyrion nods. “He would.”

“Why is he so obsessed with me?” she asks, breath shuddering out of her lungs as she presses the backs of her fingers to her mouth and looks up at Tyrion through her eyelashes - though this time, instead of flirtation in her gaze, it is torment. As Margaery has told her - and Lady Olenna has agreed - men love to think that they are saving pretty women. “Why can he not seem to leave me alone?”

With a sigh, Tyrion sets a hand down atop the one she has left on the arm of the chair, patting it carefully, as if he thinks she will snatch it away from his grasp. When she does nothing of the sort, he wraps his fingers around hers and strokes the back of her hand with his thumb, his movements soft and even. “I do not know, my lady,” he replies sorrowfully. “Perhaps if I did, I would be better able to protect you.”

“It has not been your job to protect me,” she tells him, pressing her eyelids shut to rid her sight of the blurriness of tears. She turns her head and looks out the window, vaguely wondering what had caught his attention earlier.

“How could I not?” he asks, “when it was within my power to do so?” There is an indefinably sad note to his voice that she wonders at, but his words make her want to sob.

“There were plenty who did nothing,” she reminds him, scoffing, thinking back to that day in the throne room when Joffrey had her stripped and beaten by the Kingsguard. “Though I suppose you have a measure of protection that the rest do not, as the King’s uncle.”

Tyrion snorts. “Barely,” he mutters, but she twists back around to face him.

“Would your father let Joffrey have you executed unless you had done something truly egregious?” she demands. He snorts again.

“Of course he would, my lady,” he says baldly. “My father has hated me since the day of my birth, when I killed my mother.”

She cannot help but gape at him. “Since what?” Shaking her head, she says, “But you were a baby! You couldn’t help…” She scoffs again, though this time in disgust over Tywin Lannister’s behavior, rather than that of the rest of the court. “Many women die in childbirth,” she tells him.

“And women who have dwarf children all the more often, my lady,” he says, and though his tone is emotionless, his face holds traces of long-held pain. “My father was a very different person before my mother died, I hear. The world would be a very different place if I had died and she had lived.”

“And if that had happened,” she replies, “who would be here now to protect me against Joffrey?”

He sighs, says, “If that had happened, there may not have been a Joffrey for you to need protection from.”

Her brow crinkles at his words, confusion rising inside her. What can he mean by that? Before she can ask, though, he has squeezed her hand, bowed to her, and turned to leave the room. “My lord…?” she ventures nervously, wanting to reach after him.

Turning at the door, he bows again and says, “Until tomorrow, Lady Sansa.”

* * *

In the morning, three handmaidens are sent to ready her for the wedding ceremony at the Great Sept of Baelor, twisting her hair into a complex style that she despairs of being able to take down by herself, as surely Tyrion has little experience with picking apart hairstyles - and she certainly does not want to sleep with her hair like this! It would end up in a monstrosity of tangles, certainly.

She is unutterably nervous the whole way over to the Great Sept, hands twisting together in her lap, grateful that no one is in the wheelhouse with her. When they reach the Sept, one of the guards who has been riding along to protect her - she wants to snort at the idea, for it is one of the Kingsguard that Joffrey has had beat her - helps her down from the wheelhouse and escorts her up the steps to the doors of the Sept. Once inside, she looks around nervously, unsure how this is supposed to go. She has only seen a few weddings, and none of them were in a Sept — all happened before the heart tree at Winterfell, and in each one of them, the ceremony was officiated not by a septon, but by the participants themselves. Is someone supposed to escort her to where Tyrion is waiting, like her father would in a Northern wedding? If so, who? Her father is dead — he cannot escort her anywhere, anymore.

“Lady Sansa,” she hears from off to one side; she fights off a shudder. It is Joffrey.

“Your grace,” she replies with a shallow curtsey and dip of her head. She can’t quite bear to look at him, though, so she fixes her eyes on the wall just behind him. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“Well, since your father is dead,” he says — seemingly trying for a casual tone, though it just sounds pointed, and she wants so badly to cry at the reminder - “as father of the realm, I consider it my duty to escort you to your new husband.”

Before she can make any kind of protest — what sort of nonsense is this? — Lord Tywin appears from the doors into the sanctuary of the sept. “I think not,” he says shortly. “I will escort Lady Sansa.”

Joffrey gapes unattractively at Lord Tywin, and Sansa has to fight down a triumphant smirk. She did not even have to ask Lord Tywin to do this for her! He simply decided to do it on his own. Perhaps her plea to call him her lord father yesterday had more of an impact than she expected.

“Thank you, my lord father,” she says demurely, with a deeper curtsey than she gave Joffrey; now it is her turn to be gaped at by the king.

“Your lord father?” he demands once he has recovered slightly, though he still looks faintly appalled. “Your lord father is dead.”

Blinking at him in faux confusion, she says, “No, my lord father is right here.”

“Your grace, I believe it is time for you to go into the sanctuary and stand with your mother,” Lord Tywin says. Sansa presses her lips together to fight down the smirk, hoping that her downcast eyes will convince Joffrey that she is upset or nervous about wedding Tyrion - which, in all fairness, she is, though at the moment she is not feeling it as much as petty joy at this little triumph over Joffrey’s whims and wishes.

Joffrey scowls and all but stomps into the sanctuary to stand with Cersei and Tommen.

“Lady Sansa,” Lord Tywin says, offering her his elbow.

“Thank you so much, my lord father,” she replies, setting her hand carefully in his elbow’s crook.

“Hmm.” Lord Tywin’s lips twitch. “I did tell you that I would protect you from Joffrey, did I not?”

She only nods, only smiles a touch tremulously, but her almost good-father nods to her, and they proceed into the sanctuary of the sept. An aisle has formed for them to walk down, towards where Tyrion stands before the High Septon. As they approach her betrothed, she notices that a step-stool has been placed beside him and breathes a quiet sigh of relief when she remembers that these ceremonies begin with the cloaking of the bride. When they reach Tyrion, she dips a tiny curtsey to Lord Tywin, who inclines his head and goes back down the steps to stand with the rest of his family. Oddly, Margaery and Lady Olenna and Loras are standing on the side of the aisle that should hold her family. She blinks away the confusion, though, and looks up to the High Septon with a slightly nervous gaze.

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection,” the High Septon says in severe tones, staring down at Tyrion with an almost angry look on his face.

Sansa turns her back to Tyrion, who climbs the two small steps and drapes the cloak gently around her shoulders. The rest of the ceremony passes in a blur; she cannot remember it, later. Only that Tyrion and the small smiles he kept sending her made her feel steadier, somehow, and that Joffrey sulked for the entire ceremony.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wedding Night, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the smutty stuff begins in this chapter :D

Tyrion downs a full goblet of wine the moment they sit down for the feast.

“My lord husband,” Sansa says, using the term for the first time, and blushing a little to say it, “is- is that wise?”

He turns and gives her a skeptical look. “You want me to try to get through this entire evening sober?”

Pressing her lips together, she replies, “I cannot remember a time when my father was ever drunk, and I highly doubt he drank to excess on his wedding night.”

“Well, I am not Ned Stark,” he says. “Sorry to disappoint you, my lady.”

Her eyes narrow at him. “I am not expecting you to be!” she hisses, sparing a quick glance around the room to see how many people are watching them. Approximately half the room, she figures, though none seem close enough to hear what she and Tyrion are saying. “I suppose that I just…” Swallowing, she looks away from him, turning her head to look out across the room, though she sees none of it.

He is silent beside her as she blinks to clear her vision of tears and scans the room.

Eventually she looks back at him and says, “Drink as much wine as you wish to, my lord husband. If you will excuse me, I would like to speak with Margaery and Lady Olenna.”

“Of course, of course,” he replies, though he does not pick up his wine goblet again, even after she leaves him at their table.

* * *

When Joffrey calls for the bedding ceremony — after he has just threatened to come to their chambers once Tyrion is asleep, to rape her — she can feel her face go white at the thought of it. Tyrion, at the high table, looks to where Joffrey’s hand is tight around her wrist.

“There will be no bedding ceremony,” her husband says loudly.

“Where’s your respect for tradition, Uncle?” Joffrey laughs, seeming highly amused at the torment he is putting her through — though, of course, Joffrey is always highly amused at the torment he puts her through. “Come, everyone — pick her up and carry her to her wedding bed. Get rid of her gown; she won’t be needing it any longer.” He snickers as Sansa draws her arms tight around her waist, waves an arm through the air. “Ladies, attend to my uncle — he’s not heavy.”

“There will be no bedding ceremony!” Tyrion shouts at his nephew. Her nephew, too, now, she supposes, fighting off another shudder at the thought of actually being related to Joffrey. How can Tyrion stand it?

“There will be if I command it!” Joffrey insists, hand squeezing tighter around her wrist, pressing the bones together until they ache.

A loud thunk resounds through the hall; all eyes swivel to where Tyrion has planted a dagger in the table, fist clenched around its handle. “Then you’ll be fucking your own bride with a wooden cock!” he roars, glaring at Joffrey like he would be very, very happy to castrate his nephew right here.

Joffrey just gapes at Tyrion for a long, uncomfortable moment before demanding, “What did you say?” When Tyrion makes no answer, he looks wildly around the room as if for allies before he repeats himself, much louder this time: “What… did you… SAY?”

Lord Tywin, to Sansa’s endless relief, clears his throat and says, “I believe we can dispense with the bedding, your grace. I’m sure Tyrion did not mean to threaten the king.”

Tyrion has turned his head to the side, away from Joffrey — and Sansa, so unfortunately, she cannot see his expression — but when he looks back at them, he has a forced smile on his face and removes his hand from the dagger. It stays upright, stuck deeply enough in the table to support its own weight; Sansa blinks at the sight in surprise, knowing that the table is not exactly made of soft wood - it would take more force than she realized Tyrion had used to stick the dagger that far into the table. “A bad joke, your grace,” her husband says, flicking the dagger’s handle absentmindedly as he speaks. “Made out of envy of your own royal manhood. Mine is so small; my poor wife won’t even know I’m there.”

As the ‘poor wife’ in question, Sansa flushes scarlet at his words, despite knowing that they must certainly be untrue. If he really was — she somehow blushes an even darker red — as small as he is saying, why would he visit so many whores?

“Your uncle is clearly quite drunk, your grace,” Lord Tywin says flatly, with a stern look for Tyrion.

“I am,” he agrees. “Guilty. But-” He stands, takes a gulp of wine from a nearly-full goblet, staggers from the dais. “It is my wedding night. My tiny drunk cock and I have a job to do.” Holding a hand out to her, he says, “Come, wife!” Biting her lip, she steps forward to take his hand, willing her face to stillness as he leads her from the utterly silent room, beginning to ramble, “I vomited on a girl once in the middle of the act. Not proud of it. But I think honesty is important between a man and wife; don’t you agree? Come, I’ll tell you all about it — put you in the mood.”

These horrifying words have, thankfully, taken them from the hall, and Tyrion falls silent as they continue on, through hallway after hallway. She realizes that she has no idea where his rooms are and hopes that there will be someone who can help her find them again when she inevitably gets lost.

* * *

“My apologies for that, my lady,” he says quietly as the door of his rooms — their rooms, now — closes behind them. “I lost my temper, and it seemed better to play at being quite drunk than to get my head chopped off.” The moment the words are out of his mouth, he blanches. “And it seems I must apologize again, my lady, for my lack of sensitivity.”

“It is all right, my lord,” she replies, though, at least for his second apology, it really isn’t. “I appreciate not being made a widow on my wedding night.”

“Just think,” Tyrion says cheerfully, winking at her, “if Joffrey had killed me, you and Lady Margaery would have so much in common!”

Her body goes ice-cold at his jape, while her face again flushes hot. “I do not,” she says, “find that quite as funny as you apparently do.”

“No,” he says looking contrite, “of course not.”

“My lord-”

“Call me Tyrion, please, Lady Sansa,” he says softly, sitting down on the chaise, offering her a seat with a wave of his arm.

A small smile curves her lips. “Only if you call me Sansa, …Tyrion.”

“Sansa,” he repeats. “How old are you, exactly?”

“Fourteen, my- Tyrion,” she replies, catching herself just in time to use his name, as he seems to prefer. A resigned look crosses his face as he looks down — away from her.

“My lord father has commanded me to consummate this marriage,” he tells her, sounding very tired. “I-”

She feels her chest fill with an icy cold at the idea that he may defy Lord Tywin’s wishes. “You must,” she interrupts, grabbing his shoulder. “You have to.” Her eyes are wide, a touch wild, as she stares into his, desperation plain on her face.

“Ah, yes,” her husband sighs. “Winterfell.”

“Yes, Winterfell,” she all but snaps. “I don’t care how you feel about doing this; you are going to do it anyways.”

He sighs again, looking at her with sorrow on his face. “We don’t have to do this tonight,” he says gently.

If not tonight, when? Sansa wonders, stopping herself from rolling her eyes. And what better night to consummate their marriage than their wedding night? It matters little that she is not eager to bed him — or that he, apparently, is not very eager to bed her, either. She needs to go home, and this is the way she can get there. “Yes, we do,” she insists, standing and crossing the room to the bed, where she pauses for a long moment, limbs frozen with indecision.

She could change her mind. If she did, Tyrion would not hold it against her; she can tell that much from what she knows of him. But she will not change her mind. This marriage will be consummated by the time dawn rises.

Mind made up, she reaches behind her back to untie the belt she has worn all day — a decorative, gaudy piece that she holds no affection for. The collar is next, untying easily and slipping from nerveless fingers to thump against the floor. And then… her gown. It’s lucky this one doesn’t unlace in the back, she thinks, that it crosses in the front and ties at either side. It will be easy for her to take the dress off herself, without the aid of a handmaiden.

Behind her, she cannot hear any sounds - Tyrion is definitely not following her lead and undressing. So what is he doing? Is he just watching her? The idea makes something inside her feel squirmy, so she looks over her shoulder to check. As she suspected, he is not undressing, but neither is he watching her - he has leaned his elbows onto his knees and rested his large forehead in his palms. He looks dejected, deeply unhappy at the circumstances of their wedding.

With a small sigh, she turns around again. If he is unhappy at their wedding, she is at least thrice so. And what has he to be unhappy about? She may not be deemed good enough for Joffrey, but she knows that she has inherited her mother’s looks — it’s not as if she’s ugly. And she’s young — she has years and years of potential child-bearing ahead of her. Is there something else that he could be so unhappy about?

And then she remembers Shae. Her handmaiden. The whore he brought with him to King’s Landing. The one who is dead now. Is he mourning her? Did he actually care for her? Sansa finds herself horrified at the idea — Shae was a whore! He can’t have cared for her, not the way she is thinking. But what else could it be?

Her fingers find the ties holding the sides of her dress together and pull at them; the knots come free easily, with barely any force, and the heavy gown slips from her shoulders, making a soft thud as it lands on the floor. All that is left is her shift and smallclothes, and she cannot simply take those off if Tyrion is still fully dressed. He even still has his boots on! She turns and fiddles her fingers together, nervous — she has no idea how this works. Her septa only told her that it hurts the first time but shouldn’t after that, and that she will eventually come to appreciate her husband. In this moment, she doubts it.

“Tyrion?” she calls softly, tentatively. He looks up and his eyes widen, growing large in his face. Blushing, she looks down, wraps her arms about her waist in a defensive gesture she wishes she could take back the moment her body folds into it.

“Sansa,” he breathes, sounding awed. She blushes hotter, but looks back up at him, sucking her bottom lip between her teeth and worrying at it as she searches his gaze for approval, desire, lust. “My lady, you are a vision,” he tells her, voice gentle as he leans forward to tug off his boots.

Should she help him undress? It seems so… forward, so unladylike, but Tyrion is used to whores. Surely no whore would blush red at the thought of helping him out of his doublet, his shirt. Before she knows fully what she is doing, her feet are crossing the floor to him. She sinks to her knees before him and leans forward to take hold of his other boot and pull it off his foot. When she chances a quick glance up at him, he looks almost alarmed, and she draws back, worried. “Did I do something wrong?” she asks nervously, looking at him with her brows pulled together in worry.

“No,” he says, and his voice is hoarse. She frowns, confused at the change, but brushes the thought away in favor of kneeling up a bit to unfasten his doublet with its golden lions. “Sansa… there is no need for you to do that,” he tells her. “I am perfectly capable of undressing myself.”

“But you weren’t,” she says. It should be obvious, shouldn’t it? And why hadn’t he been undressing? Surely she had been clear enough that she was expecting him to bed her.

“Go to the bed, my lady,” he says, voice back to its usual gentle tone, though there is a slight rough note to it that makes her insides shiver. “I will join you there in just a moment.”

She eyes him with just a small amount of suspicion, but nods and rises, crosses the room again, this time turning the covers back and climbing into the bed. Its silken sheets are luxurious against her skin, and she wiggles her legs back and forth for more of the delicious feeling. She watches him, though, not trusting that he will actually keep undressing and come to the bed to consummate their marriage.

He does keep undressing, though — first his doublet, then his breeches, then the stockings, lightweight but thicker than her own, which are fine as spider-silk. He is left in only his long shirt and smallclothes, and he looks as nervous as she feels. He shouldn’t, though, she thinks — hasn’t he bedded countless women? What is so different about her?

“My l- Tyrion,” she says hesitantly, her eyes darting between her hands, twisting in her lap, and his face. “Please come to bed.” Though her heart is twisting in her chest, she looks up again and holds his gaze. He takes a deep breath, eyes closing.

Biting her lip, she lifts her hands to the ties at the front of her shift. Perhaps she is not alluring enough for him? She has only got one of the laces undone when he speaks. “Sansa, leave those for me,” he says. She frowns but lets her hands fall to her sides, where they scrunch into the soft sheets, pressing wrinkles into the cloth.

There is a small set of steps beside the bed, and he makes use of them to join her atop the bed. Kneeling beside her, her new husband reaches down and, with trembling hands, pulls at the ties of her shift, though he does not pull the sides of it apart.

“Are you afraid?” he asks her gently, stroking a hand lightly down from her shoulder to her elbow.

“A little,” she admits, meeting his eyes for only a half-second before she looks away again.

His hand on her own makes her eyes fly back to his. “I know this is not what you would have chosen, Sansa,” he says sorrowfully.

“I will get to go back to Winterfell,” she tells him. “Nothing matters more than that.”

He swallows noisily, clears his throat. “I don’t want this to just be something that you suffer through,” he tells her. “I want… I want it to be good for you.”

Her face flames. “My lord,” she begins, before remembering to use his name — “Tyrion, what will make it good for me is for you to give me a child.”

Sighing deeply, her husband says to her, “Sansa, I know that the first time for women can be quite painful, but it can also be very pleasurable indeed. I would prefer it be the latter for you.”

“I don’t care!” she insists.

“I do,” he replies, more sharply than she thinks he means to, as he winces as soon as the words are out of his mouth. “It is not just for your sake that I would like you to enjoy it — although if you do enjoy it, you are more likely to want to partake in the act more often, which will increase your chances of pregnancy — it is for my own sake as well. I do not want to have to watch you be in pain, knowing that I am the cause of it, not when I know that I could make it better for you.”

“Fine,” she sighs, letting her head drop back to her pillow, holding her arms out to the sides. “Do what you will.”

Tyrion chuckles. “Sansa, I doubt you want me to do all that I wish to. However, I would ask to start with a kiss.”

“All right,” she says, letting her eyes drift shut and tilting her head back. She doesn’t see the way he pauses for a long moment, hand set to her cheek, gazing down at her, a soft look of awe on his face, before he leans down and presses his lips to hers, like he did in the Great Sept earlier in the day. Only this time, it is not just a quick press of lips; it is longer, deeper. She parts her lips around a tiny gasp at the tingling in her belly, making him press his advantage and kiss her yet more deeply. “Oh…”

When her eyes blink open, see him leaning over her, hand still pressed to her cheek, when she lifts a hand up to the back of his head and pulls him back down to her lips, his control snaps. He tears his lips from hers and presses kisses down the length of her neck, murmuring, “Astoundingly long,” as he reaches her collarbone.

“What?” she gasps, both of her hands now buried in his hair.

“Your neck,” he replies as his lips wander lower, kissing down the center of her chest, parting her shift, though leaving her still covered. Are her breasts too small, she wonders, for she knows she is still growing, still maturing into a woman’s body. Now, she is awkwardly half-way in between, neither a woman nor a girl.

When his lips reach the edge of her smallclothes, she gasps aloud, quivering when he drags his lips across to her right hipbone, where he parts his lips and gives her an open-mouthed kiss. She whimpers a little — one hand leaves his hair to press across her mouth, to stifle the sound.

“Don’t,” he says, lifting his head from her hip. She looks at him quizzically, frowning in confusion. “Let me hear the sounds you’re making,” he tells her. “Please.”

She takes a deep breath and moves her hand away from her mouth, setting it on the sheets by her side. The hot press of his lips against the delicate skin over her hipbone makes her hand clench into a fist and causes her to gasp. “Tyrion,” she breathes, head tilting back, as his fingers slide up the length of her leg, from her ankle past her knee and up the inside of her thigh, all the way up to her very center, where he pauses.

“Is this-” he stammers — “I mean, may I-”

“Please,” Sansa begs, not knowing really what she is asking for, but knowing she needs something more than what little he is doing already. Her hands leave his hair, leave the bedsheet, and drag the hem of her shift above her head, pulling the garment off completely.

At the same moment, Tyrion begins to let his fingers dance along the delicate skin of her core, the thin material of her smallclothes barely a barrier, making sparks shoot up her spine, making her gasp again. He freezes, gaping at her bared body, until she wriggles against his hand, seeking… something.

“Tyrion…” she groans in frustration, “do something!”

He chuckles and strokes his fingers over her, making her tense as pleasure washes over her. She has no idea what he’s doing, but she hopes he never stops. It feels so good. “I’m going to try something a little different now, Sansa,” he murmurs, lips against her skin, just below her belly button. “Would you take off your smallclothes?”

Tense with suspicion now, she lifts her hips and shimmies out of her smallclothes, though she doesn’t really want him to stop — doesn’t really want him to try something different.

“Thank you, Sansa,” he breathes, kissing a line down the center of her belly, right across the red curls between her legs, down to a place that makes her gasp with pleasure and fist her hands in the sheets.

“Oh!” she breathes as his lips move even lower while his fingers return to strumming across the place that makes her want to arch off the bed and into his mouth. “Oh… ohhh… oh- Tyrion!”

He lifts his head and grins wickedly at her, not removing his fingers from inside her. “Yes, my lady?” he says, affecting an innocent expression at total odds with his grin of moments before. “What is it?”

“Tyrion, that feels…” She lets her head fall back and, a little nervously, moves one of her hands, sliding her fingers through his hair, gripping the back of his head.

He twists his fingers inside her and licks at the place bringing her so much pleasure. Lifting his head again, though he keeps moving his fingers, shifting so they slowly pump in and out of her, he says, “So, my lady, how do you find the marriage bed?” As he speaks, his thumb comes to her center and rubs circles into her, making her arch into his hand.

“Oh!” she cries, feeling like she is about to reach something, something just beyond her grasp… “Tyrion!” she cries as she peaks under his ministrations.

When she relaxes back into the bed, feeling boneless, he smiles down at her tenderly. “We need do no more than this tonight, my lady,” he says gently.

Sitting bolt upright, feeling as if she has been plunged into an icy pool, she says, “Don’t you dare! You cannot stop now!” Grasping for words, she says, “Lord Tyrion, does anything that’s happened yet have the potential to make me pregnant?”

Now it is his turn to feel a sudden chill, as his throat tightens around the word, “No,” knowing that she does not really want him, that even though he has brought her pleasure, for her it is all about making a child. And he has done his utmost thus far to avoid fathering any children, not wanting to subject any more children to the fate of being bastards.

And yet Sansa is his wife. Any and all of their children will be true-born. He need not worry about fathering a bastard with her.

“Then get on with it!” she demands, sounding slightly hysterical.

“My lady…” he says quietly, “are you sure?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'm just a well-read virgin, so please be gentle with me!)  
> the actual smut will happen in the next chapter - sorry for the cliffhanger!! I know it's a bit evil...


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wedding Night, Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, sorry this took so freaking long!! (Mostly I was held up by the fact that this is slightly shorter than my usual chapter length, and I didn't want it to be too short, in light of how much longer than usual the previous chapter was.) I really hope you like it :D

Yes, she wants to say. Yes, she’s bloody sure. Yes, because she wants to go home more than she wants her next breath, and a child - _his_ child - is the only way to get there.

“My lady?” Tyrion says, drawing back from her a little. She realizes that her gaping at him in shock over his repeating the question yet _again_ has been taken as not quite a refusal, but close enough. He begins to shift away from her, and her hand grabs at his wrist.

“No!” she hisses. “You can’t leave before you do your duty!”

“My _duty?”_ he repeats, staring at her as if dumbfounded. “Lady Sansa, if you think it is for _duty_ that I wish to bed you…”

She blushes furiously and glares at him. “My lord,” she says stiffly, “I _do not care_ why you wish to, I only care that you _do_.” Before she can lose her nerve completely, she leans forward and kisses him, bringing a hand to the side of his face, to hold him to her, to make sure he does not escape her lips. She cannot think of anything else to do; she is not bold enough to do anything more daring than kissing him, and she cannot let him get out of this bed.

Only a moment of hesitation holds him back, and then he is kissing her back, more furiously than before, hands in her hair, leaning over her, making her fall back to the bed, his lips firmly attached to hers. “Lady Sansa-”

“Just _do_ it,” she snarls, dragging his lips back to hers, both of her hands now firmly lodged in his hair. He makes a sad laughing sound and kisses down her neck. In only moments, he is dragging his lips away from hers to divest himself of the rest of his clothes, and when he draws back to her, his lips attack her collarbones. His tongue slides across the skin of her chest; his teeth graze lightly across her left nipple, making her shudder and cry out, a wordless, inarticulate sound.

“I am sorry if this hurts you, my lady,” he murmurs into the skin of her breast, just as he thrusts into her and breaks her maidenhead. She makes a choked, pained noise, and he murmurs, into her ear, “I am so sorry, my lady.”

“Just move,” she moans. “Just-” She grimaces. “Please, Tyrion.” Even with her obvious pain, hearing her moan his name in his ear like that makes him snap his hips into her again - and again, at the soft grunt she makes.

“Gods, Sansa,” he mutters, “Gods, you’re so tight-” He sets a hand to the back of her left thigh, bringing her knee higher up, hooking her leg behind him, making her quiet noises of pain turn to a pleasured gasp.

“Oh,” she breathes, “oh, oh, oh!” Without any prompting from him, she brings her other leg around his back, too, making her head fall back in pleasure as his hand reaches between them and rubs circles into her center. “Tyrion!” she cries as she peaks again, vaguely hearing him grunt as he thrusts into her over and over until he stills, forehead pressed into her chest.

Long moments later, when they have both stopped panting, he makes to roll off of her, but she tightens her legs around him and buries a hand in his hair, a smile drifting across her lips as she feels the light kiss he presses to her breastbone.

In the morning, he wakes to find Sansa’s hand pressing into his chest as she shifts back and forth, moaning, brow creased even in sleep.

“My lady?” he says, touching her shoulder lightly. “Sansa?”

“Mmm,” she mumbles. “Yes…” He smiles, thinking she is having a dream about what they did last night, but such thoughts are drowned by her next words: “Father,” she sighs, curling her body further around his. “Mmm… yes… kind… and gentle… ‘nd strong…”

He sighs, hoping that the dream fades from her mind when she wakes, for while he will gladly console her again over her father’s death, it is not exactly how he had imagined spending his first day of marriage, and he would rather spare her the pain. “Oh, Sansa,” he murmurs, sitting up and taking her hand in his, stroking his other hand over her silky red hair.

“Father, he… good… not like…Joffrey…” Her brow is crinkled deeper now, and his heart aches at how much pain she has already gone through in her short life. “Like… him…” his wife mumbles, “keep… go home…”

Leaning down to kiss her forehead, he brings his hand from her hair to her cheek, stroking her cheekbone as his lips touch her forehead.

Her eyes flutter open and she blinks up at him, face still relaxed with slumber for several long moments - and then she blinks twice, very fast, and her expression closes, becoming guarded and tense. “Lo- Tyrion?” she says softly, bringing a hand up to his cheek, smiling a little tremulously, tilting her chin up in a clear invitation; he leans down and presses his lips to hers. The kiss is gentle, soft, and she seems almost nervous, which confuses him at first, until he remembers that this is all new to her.

“Are you… sore at all, my lady?” he asks carefully, watching as confusion passes over her face before she blushes bright red and looks away from him. “Sansa, I need you to tell me.” He tries to make his voice firm but still gentle, though how well he succeeds… based on the way she flinches a little, his voice did not cooperate. Squeezing her hand, he adds, “Please, Sansa. If you are still sore from last night, I won’t touch you again this morning. I don’t want to harm you, ever.”

Her expression shutters, and she looks away from him. “I feel fine, Tyrion,” she says, looking back up at him and taking a deep breath. “Please, I-” Words seem to fail her, and she mouths wordlessly for a moment before sighing in defeat. Instead of words, she chooses action, and reaches up again, sliding her fingers into his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp, and tries to pull him down to her. He only resists for a moment before giving in and kissing her deeply, licking at her bottom lip.

She makes a small noise of surprise, and he pauses, stilling, but then she parts her lips and allows him entry. Her head tilts back as he slides a hand up her side, brushing against the side of her breast.

As he kisses her and strokes gentle fingers across her breasts, barely touching her skin, she brings her other hand to his chest, then slides it down his side to his hip, where she pauses for a moment before grasping his cock. He groans into her mouth, cannot help the little thrust he makes, though he winces, hoping it will not put her off.

“Please,” she whispers, “Tyrion…” She parts her legs just a little, but enough for him to recognize the invitation; he moves to kneel between her legs.

Groaning into the soft skin of her breast as she wraps one leg, then both, around his hips and tries to pull him closer to her, he brings a hand down to check how wet she is. Rather less than he had hoped, given how seemingly enthusiastic she is acting. He would prefer that she be far more aroused than she is, so he circles his thumb around her clit and takes one of her nipples between his teeth, remembering that she had enjoyed that the night before. She gasps, and he raises his head to see that she has tilted her own back nearly as far as it can go and is making little broken moaning noises.

When he judges that she is aroused enough for him to enter her, he brings his hand away from her center - she lifts her head and frowns at him - to guide his cock into her. She looks up at him, meeting his eyes as he slides home. Her ankles cross behind his back, and she tightens her legs around him, bringing a hand to his head and combing her fingers through his hair.

The intensity in her eyes is too much for him; he groans and drops his forehead to her breastbone, presses his lips against her skin. She makes little breathy noises with each of his thrusts, and too soon he feels his peak approaching.

Stilling inside her, he brings his hand back to her center and strums his fingers across her clit. “My- Tyrion?” she says, sounding confused. “Why did you stop?”

Lifting his head, he replies, “Because this would be over rather faster than I think either of us would prefer if I had not.” She still looks confused, though, so he punctuates his words with a little thrust of his hips — that he cannot really help — that presses him even deeper inside her. Circling his thumb around her clit again makes her take in a sharp breath and give him a little whimpering sound. He groans, pressing his forehead against her chest, in response to the sound, which has brought him even closer to the edge than before; he does not want to come until she has peaked around him again. It felt utterly divine last night, and he is eager to repeat the experience.

He redoubles his efforts, concentrating on the tight circles his thumb is making around her clit. “Oh- mmm- oh!” she cries as she clenches around him. Her toes curl against the back of his thigh. “Mm- Tyrion, why aren’t you _moving_?” she complains. “Please, I need-” Her voice falls away with a choked sound as he begins thrusting inside her again, encouraged by both her words and the faint fluttering sensation around his cock. She only moans quietly as she comes, and he looks up to see that she is biting down on her lower lip, stifling herself. The sight of her face, screwed up with pleasure, tips him over the edge, and he spends inside her with a loud, low grunt.

When his head stops spinning with to pleasure, he groans and kisses Sansa’s breastbone; her fingers are combing through his hair, nails scratching his scalp lightly.

Pushing up on his elbows, he murmurs, “I thought I told you I want to hear the lovely noises you make,” his voice mild.

Before she can reply, the door opens without any warning. Sansa squeaks with fright, and he glares harshly at the maid who is now gaping at them.

“ _Out!_ ” he roars. “ _Get out!_ ” The girl, now looking terrified, nods and turns quickly, shutting the door behind her. He can hear muttering from the other side of it, however, so clearly she is reporting on what she saw to whoever is in the hall. He would not put it past his father to have the maid burst in, and the thought of it makes him glare at the door.

When he looks back at Sansa, brow still furrowed with displeasure, she flinches a little, and he makes an effort to smooth out his face. “Tyrion, I’m sure she didn’t mean to… interrupt us,” she says, voice a little tremulous.

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” he replies. “Either way, I am sorry that she startled you.”

Sansa stifles a snort. “It’s hardly _your_ fault,” she mutters. “It’s not like you asked for her to come in — it’s not like she knocked!” She huffs with annoyance. “Really, Tyrion, she should have knocked. It’s the morning after our wedding night. Shouldn’t she have known that something like this might be happening?”

She shifts underneath him, and he realizes that he is still inside her, that he was still inside her when he yelled for the maid to get out of their room. However, taking her again just now, even though he could, would not be mannerly. She must be sore, he thinks; she was certainly a maiden before last night. He really should have a hot bath called for. If only that dratted maid had entered the room two minutes later!

Pulling back from her, he notices a glimmer of a grimace flicker across her face and kicks himself for being such a lust-filled little beast. She _was_ sore from last night, and he _should_ have held off from fucking her this morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so I hope you liked this chapter! If you did, please leave me a comment :D I really appreciate every comment I've gotten.


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